Celestia... It's Full Of Quills!

by Arcainum

Rating: everyone
Tags: Twilight Sparkle, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Random
Length: 3675

Twilight Sparkle breaks her last quill. Then she finds enlightenment. Go figure.

Twilight breaks her quill. She goes to Quills & Sofas to buy a new one.

Hyper-intelligent pandimensional beings beyond the feeble ken of conventional sentience may or may not also feature.

- Written for the SALT contest, with the prompt, "Twilight breaks her quill. She goes to Quills & Sofas to buy a new one."

Featured on EqD, rated Star-4.

Winner of the Storybook Vision Looks OK Award
[img]http://i.imgur.com/YYFTket.png[/img]

Published 2012-05-17 08:54:02 UTC
Last updated 2012-05-17 08:54:02 UTC

Twilight Has A Conversation

Twilight Sparkle’s quill finally gave up. For days of sleepless work the elaborate phoenix-feather masterpiece of the pen-maker’s craft had struggled against the onslaught of its owner’s fevered scribbling, but wear was wear and it could take no more. The fine metal tip, hoof-carved by Canterlot artisans, snapped cleanly free and leapt from the page with a noise that could only be described as “spang,” slicing a thin red line across Twilight’s cheek as it did so.

“Ow!”

As she raised a hoof to her stinging face and released the quill from her magical grip, her eyes widened with shock.

“Oh no... Not you!”

The quill lay forlornly on the heavy parchment that had so cruelly ended its useful life. The Princess had given it to her as a present to celebrate the latest anniversary of her arrival in Ponyville, and Twilight had cared for it with almost religious fervour. She wouldn’t even be using it if Spike’s recent cold hadn’t led to her desk being involved in an... incendiary incident that had reduced her entire supply to a mound of sizzling dust.

The tip-tap of clawed feet heralded the arrival of the dragon himself, still yawning as he pattered down the stairs from their room.

“What’s up, Twilight? Are you still working on that report?”

He blinked in surprise as the quill, clutched in the purple nimbus of Twilight’s magic, thrust itself at his face.

“My quill! The one the Princess gave me! It broke!”

“Uh... so?”

Twilight stared at him, unable to believe her assistant could be so... so... oblivious.

“So?! So?! This was a gift! Possibly the most wonderful gift I’ve ever received! The Princess had it made especially for me! She even said...” She blushed, pausing for an awkward cough. “That’s, um, not important. But it’s a very special quill!” Her ears drooped. “And... and now it’s broken.”

Spike scratched the spines on his head in embarrassment.

“Gee, Twilight, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise how important it was to you. You want me to pick up a spare tomorrow?”

Twilight sighed and nodded, gently placing her damaged treasure back on the table.

“I guess. I need something to write with.”

Spike snapped his claws as an idea struck him.

“Hey, I know! Rarity said she’s going to Canterlot on business soon. Why don’t we ask her if she can get it repaired while she’s there?”

Twilight wiped a developing tear from the corner of her eye and smiled.

“That sounds like a great idea, Spike. Thank you.”

Spike preened his spines, turning to head back upstairs as he did so.

“Well, I am your Number One Assistant! I have to have good ideas sometimes.”

As Twilight giggled at his pride, he strolled back up out of sight. Alone again, Twilight sighed one last time and began to organise her papers. If she couldn’t finish the report, she could at least-

The tale must be written.

She started at the voice.

“Who’s there?!”

Silence, bar the faint rustle of Spike pulling his pillow over his ears. Twilight shook her head. It must have been her imagination. Her horn glowed again, and the opening pages of her work floated over to-

The tale must be written.

She squeaked in fear as she heard the voice again, a frightened burst of magic scattering her report about the room.

The tale must be written.

“What tale?! Who are you?!”

There is no time. The tale must be written.

A strange feeling began to steal over Twilight, a calm that stood strongly at odds with the fear that gripped her.

“No... no time? What do you mean?”

There is no time. The tale must be written.

The tension in Twilight’s body drained away. Slowly, unsure of why, she nodded, and found herself speaking in an agreeable tone.

“I... yes. The tale..”

It was very clear. The voice was right. There was no time, and the tale did need to be written. It was imperative that she find a quill as soon as possible.

“Quills & Sofas will be open. It’s only three in the morning.”

She trotted stiffly to the door, muttering to herself.

“The tale must be written.”

~

Twilight hammered on the door of Quills N’ Sofas for the tenth time and shouted up at the window to the owner’s above-shop living quarters.

“Davenport! I know you’re in there!”

The window slammed open and the proprietor stuck his head into the cold night air, glaring down at Twilight with dark-rimmed eyes.

“What? It’s three in the morning, Twilight Sparkle!”

“I need a quill!”

Davenport gave her a look he usually reserved for those who insisted on asking whether Quills N’ Sofas would sell them something that was neither quill nor sofa. His response was curt.

“Well, you came to the right place! Just, you know, six hours too early.”

Twilight gritted her teeth. Why didn’t he understand?! Though the feeling that had dragged her here was no longer so insistent, she still knew, knew, that the tale must be written. And you couldn’t write without a quill!

“It’s really important! Please, Davenport! I’ll just pick one out and leave some money! You don’t even have to come down! The tale must be written!”

"You want me to let you waltz into my shop at three in the morning and buy something without me there? I'm sorry, Twilight, I'm afraid I can't do that!"

"Please, Davenport! It must be written!"

Davenport put his head in his hooves. One day, he swore, he would go back to Canterlot where he wasn’t harassed on an almost weekly basis by unhinged bibliophiles.

“Okay, fine! Just... do your business and go home, all right?” As he closed the window, he said quietly to himself, “And let me get some sleep.”

The front door’s lock clicked open, released by the remote mechanism Twilight had helped Davenport install months ago in thanks for his taking a huge order on her behalf. She rushed in, the urge taking hold of her again.

Yet something in her held her back. She slowed to a halt as she entered the darkness of the shop. Unease pricked the back of her mind. Why had she come here? What could possibly be that important?

The darkness made the small shop seem even more cramped than it was. Racks of quills loomed above and around, and the sofas formed a mass of chest-high, shapeless shadows. She felt trapped. The cool breeze blowing in from outside rustled the many feathers on display, a thousand soft whispers running together in a sinister susurrus that felt... alive.

She crept forward, crouching low. Whatever determination had driven her so far was fast departing, but she couldn’t stop. The tale must be written. Her eye was drawn to the far side of the shop. In the dim moonlight, she could just make out the display cabinet reserved for the finest quills. She knew then what she had to do.

The whispers of the quills grew louder. She quickened her pace, weaving a path through the sofas that suddenly seemed to be moving, trying to block her progress. But that was silly. Sofas didn’t move. All she had to do was reach the cabinet. What she needed was in there. The tale must be written.

She tripped over a sofa. Had it been there before? She was sure she had moved to avoid it. The darkness pressed in, and shadows moved in the corners of her vision. Her breathing deepened as she picked herself up and continued moving towards the cabinet. The creaking of tightened fabric was almost as loud as the now-deafening rustling of the quills, a silken wave of sound that made her want to scream and run straight back home.

But she couldn’t run. She had to reach the cabinet. The tale must be written. She clambered over another sofa, and it bucked beneath her, throwing her onto another. She scrambled free as it tried to tip her onto the ground. Fabric and feathers and wood and whispers all crowded about her, drowning sight and sense in a dull roar. She was almost there. She stumbled over a third sofa, hooves scrabbling for purchase in the sea of creaking darkness that threatened to pull her into itself. She reached out her hoof. She was so close. The tale must be written. Behind her, the darkness rose, a seething cloud of black ink sweeping across the shop to engulf her...

She touched the cabinet.

~

She awoke to the void.

She tried to look around, but there was nothing to see. She cast her perception down at herself, but to her horror saw nothing. Even as she gasped, she realised no sound had emerged. She could see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing. She was nothing.

She had no idea how long she experienced the void, if experience was the word. There was no time to pass, no space to pass it in. She merely existed, her thoughts as blank as the slate she inhabited.

Then... a sound, felt rather than heard. An impossible sound. A familiar sound. The sound. She latched onto it, straining to somehow make it clearer, to solidify this single auditory proof of her own existence.

Her mind suddenly raced. Her consciousness flitted through a thousand shapes, shapes to make the sound real. A bowl, a microphone, a funnel, an ear... The sound grew clearer. Memory crept back, and she stumbled upon a four-legged form that felt right, felt like it belonged to her.

The moment she knew herself, she knew the sound. A rough scratching, the hoarse skrit-skrit of keratin on parchment.

A quill, writing.

Suddenly, there was everything. In a single tremendous, incomprehensible instant, the void was replaced by everything that ever was and ever would be. Light, energy, feeling, life, meaning, all burst from the sound in a glorious wave of purest creation. Twilight Sparkle truly awoke and, for the briefest moment, she looked out across the boundless ocean of space and time... and felt it look back.

You see a beginning. You must understand. The tale must be written.

~

Twilight sat bolt upright. She was in darkness again, but... She sighed in strange relief. This was conventional darkness. An absence of light.

She tried desperately to process what she had just experienced, even as she analyzed her surroundings. There was no floor, yet there was definitely a surface that she could stand upon. What was that? Though there was no point of reference as far as the eye could see - what had she felt, what had she done? - she could see herself clearly despite the apparent lack of light. Where am I and what is happening?

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, focusing her mind. She mustn’t panic. There was something... very strange going on and there was no way acting like a frightened foal was going to help her.

You awake as you. Success.

She shrieked and galloped into the darkness.

A few minutes of mindless flight later, she came to a halt, panting.

“Stupid, stupid Twilight! Analyse the situation! Test the waters! Do what you do best!”

She steeled herself and, tentatively, whispered at the blackness.

“Is there... anypony there?”

Not here. Everywhere.

She gulped. Okay. This was progress.

“I... Who are you? What was that... that?”

Not ‘who.’ That was a beginning.

Through the fear, Twilight’s brain began to tick over, settling into the routines that had served her so well throughout her life.

“Okay, that’s... not really helpful. Do you have a name?”

You speak at

There was a pause. It occurred to Twilight that she had never once heard the voice. Every word she registered, she merely... remembered, as if she had always known them.

You speak at an everything.

Twilight made a disgruntled noise.

“O... kay. This could be difficult. Why are you speaking so strangely?”

Higher. Too high. Speak in truth, you hear in words.

Twilight’s almost choked as her mind ran through the ways the voice’s words could be interpreted.

“Are you... are you saying you’re some kind of... greater being? Some kind of...”

Not god. Not greater. Higher.

“But, surely-”

No. Even this place that is not place, yours. Construct. Safety. Soul understands what it cannot. Reacts.

Twilight fell to her haunches, staring at her hooves. This was beyond anything she had ever experienced. She had felt the magic of friendship, been touched by Chaos itself, and briefly been one with the awesome power of the Elements of Harmony. But this... presence, this voice... Merely thinking about it made her mind recoil, as if she were standing before an abyss ready to consume her if she took one step further.

“R-Right. I think I understa-” She caught herself as the voice’s words came back to her. “I understand that I don’t understand. Is that... right?”

Acceptance. There is no time. The tale must be written.

“You keep saying that. What does it mean?”

Time is soon. Too soon. Time for a new everything.

“A new everything?”

Another tale. Tale born from a tale.

Twilight ran her hoof through her mane in mounting frustration.

“But what is the tale?! And what do you want from me?”

There was another pause. Twilight noticed that when the voice wasn’t speaking, the intense feeling of... other diminished. The faintest hints of a theory began to stir, but was buried beneath the returning presence of the voice.

Cannot explain. Too high, as you are too low. Too far between. Know truth, not words.

Twilight swallowed and licked her lips. She had to ask. The thrill of discovery vied with the fear of the unknown.

“Is the tale... everything?”

She somehow sensed overwhelming relief from the voice.

You reach above you, touch at truth. The tale is an everything. Everything that is. The tale must be written.

Twilight frowned.

“But... wait. If you're ‘everything,’ then how can the tale be everything too?”

Not ‘you.’ An everything. Everything within everything within everything.

Suddenly, the sense of the voice increased, the force of the words planting themselves in her past driving Twilight to her knees.

No more. Too low. You cannot comprehend. There is no time.

As the pressure retreated, Twilight picked herself up, rubbing her head and cowering slightly.

“I-I’m sorry. Just... tell me what I need to do!”

Time was right. Conditions were right. Execution was wrong. Help. Help correct.

“Okay. Okay. Let me just... Let me just run through this. You want the tale to be written.”

Yes.

“And it was going to be written tonight.”

Yes.

“But something went wrong, and now it won’t be written.”

Yes. Impossible. Beyond understanding. Tales have always been written. Tales must be written. Direct intervention unprecedented. Feared. Necessary.

Twilight closed her eyes and sighed. She wished she had her quill with her. Being able to take notes would really help right about... Wait. Her eyes snapped open again.

“My quill! My quill broke! No, wait, that can’t be right. There’s no way my quill breaking could be that impor-”

Correct. Right time. Right conditions. Wrong execution. Tale is an everything. Smallest part of everything is still everything. Everything affects everything... Frustration. Cannot explain. Too much ‘everything.’ Many truths, one word.

Twilight shook her head in disbelief. Her mind was approaching the abyss again, and she knew she had to step back or lose everything she was.

“So... it all comes down to my quill? That’s it? I write a, a report on the hardening of scales throughout the growth of juvenile dragons, and a new... a new everything is made? How can that possibly be?” Glimpses of the majesty she had so momentarily witnessed flashed before her eyes, filtered by her subconscious to protect her already shaken rational mind. “How can just putting pen to paper create something so.. so wonderful?”

There was no response. She sensed something almost like fear. The abyss loomed.

Words. Creation. Tales. Tales telling tales. Cyclical. Infinite. Layered. Separate. One. Tales telling tales telling tales. Words making worlds. Web within a web. Tales making words making worlds telling tales making worlds telling words making tales telling

Twilight hurriedly called out over the quickening voice in her head.

“That’s enough! I’m sorry! Stop, please!”

The voice left her completely. She reeled at the sudden emptiness. The voice’s presence had been so awesome she had been unable to even understand how much it had been affecting her.

As she began to fear it would never return, the pressure returned, a hesitant edge to it. Almost... embarrassed.

Even highest cannot touch highest truth.

There was a moment of silence.

“Tell me what I have to do.”

Nothing. Understand now. Could not comprehend diversion. Error too low. You interpret. Error known, can correct.

“Wait... that’s it? That’s all I needed to do? Just... help you understand?”

Yes.

Twilight bit her lip. She feared the answer to her next question more than she had feared anything else in her time with the voice.

“So I... I can go home?”

Yes.

Twilight felt tears of relief prick at her eyes even as her curiosity cried out, suicidally, to stay.

You will return. You will not remember, but you will understand. You will do what is correct. What is right. As will everything. As will I.

The pause that followed was the deepest yet. Twilight could feel the voice searching for the right word, for the perfect way to communicate its ineffable whims.

Gratitude.

She felt herself fading. The initial panic was quickly supplanted by faith in the power of the being she felt blessed by an encounter with. The voice stayed with her even as the darkness became void.

A gift before you forget. You are low. Before we return

Something clicked within Twilight’s mind. Before she could even contemplate it, she was engulfed by perfect, untainted, wondrous clarity. She opened her eyes... then opened them again.

become high.

The void became everything.

Every tale, every word, every world - an unknowable, immeasurable number of stories and universes intertwined in a gargantuan web of being that stretched beyond comprehension, beyond size, beyond anything. All of creation hung within itself, a book and a page and a mind and a scroll and a web and a note and a thought and a soul all at once. The universes scrawled on its surface and around it and on themselves writhed in serence coils, joining and splitting and birthing in an unending cosmic dance of infinite complexity.

Above and around blazed two blinding concentrations of power - one white and one black - bathing the structure in motherly radiance.

But that was not all she could perceive. Wherever she focused her expanded consciousness, a creeping darkness tinged her perception. The tendrils of a malice beyond imagining grasped at the great work, hungrily reaching for the lexicon of worlds and probing the defenses of its caretakers with tireless patience.

And there, nothing more than drifting specks before the impossible geometry of existence, were the caretakers themselves. She tried to focus on them, to discern their nature, but she felt the clarity fading. The gift was spent. Desperately, every passing moment dragging her down into a pathetic four dimensions, she fought her soul’s demotion.

She screamed. This was too cruel. To show her this, even for a moment, and then to take it away...

Beauty became insanity. The web blurred into itself. Everything became nothing, truth reduced to knowledge reduced to ignorance reduced to innocence. In the final instant before her consciousness shut itself down in self-preservation, the instant in which the boundary between enlightenment and blindness was blurred, a final realisation clicked into place. The forms of those that tended the great work, that told the tale how to tell itself, were

They were

They had been

They had

Th

~

Twilight woke with a start, bumping her head on the lamp above her as she did so.

“Ow!”

Rubbing her head, she looked around. The library was a mess. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she looked down and realised she had fallen asleep at the table. Her report on dragon scales lay accusingly before her, flecked with drool and a few specks of blood from the cut on her cheek. Hoping Spike hadn’t come down for a late night snack while she slept and wondering how she had cut herself, she hurriedly wiped it clean.

Something nagged at her as she did so. A feeling of loss. As if she had just eaten the perfect meal but could not remember the taste. There was something else, too. The smell of... linen?

She shrugged. Leftover sensation from some forgotten dream, no doubt. No time to speculate, anyway. She had a report to write. She turned to her pot of quills and cocked her head in confusion.

“That’s funny... I thought I was all out.”

The beautiful custom quill the Princess had given her on the anniversary of her coming to Ponyville sat next to one she didn’t recognise. Lifting the unexpected item from the pot with her magic, she inspected it closely.

The feather was sleek, coloured a deep black, and speckled with white. Looking directly at it gave the impression of looking into the night sky. It seemed to come from no animal she could name. A tiny inscription ran faintly along the length of the core, and she squinted to read it.

“Tales telling tales.”

She swished it across her rough page a few times. It had a good weight, though. It felt... right.

“Huh. Weird.”

She shrugged again. A quill was a quill - except those given by the Princess, of course.

She settled down, licking the nib and dipping it in the ink pot. Thinking for a moment, she tried to marshal the words she wanted to put down. The section on prepubescent iridescence had been causing her particular difficulty. At last, she nodded to herself.

She began to write.

Notes!